


The Mystery of the Chickens (A Sherlex Holmes adventure, #1)

by FaAmeroE



Category: Sherlex Holmes - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Parody, Sherlock Holmes Parody
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-23 02:19:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11393337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaAmeroE/pseuds/FaAmeroE
Summary: After passing 8 months at war, Dr. John Fatson returns to his natal country. But reestablishing in London could be hard for him, as he has no friends, no job, and obviously no money. In the need of finding a cheap flat, he gets to meet Mr. Sherlex Holmes, a mysterious and cold man with a great deducing capacity.Now that he has moved with Sherlex, Fatson wants to know everything about his new flatmate, his life, and the the analysing process made inside his methodical mind. But his little investigations could put the Dr´s life at risk and force him to face crime.





	1. Mr. Sherlex Holmes

Extracted from the memoirs of John Hamish Fatson

Doctor in Literature that belonged to Professor Y.B.'s investigation body

(and the professor's own personal assistant).

 

**Chapter 1.**

**Mr. Sherlex Holmes**

 

 **I** n 2010 I finished my doctor's degree in the University of London, and just right after, I moved to Atlanta to take and especial poetry course with probably the best and most influential Literature man nowadays;

Professor Y.B.

But as I had passes the last 8 years of my life just studying, I found myself in the need of a job. And it was an absolute honour to find it beside such a great man as Professor Y.B., for when I started taking his course, he saw the potential within me and asked me if I would rather become his personal assistant. That way I was able not only to learn from his courses (in which I was always present and helping), but also to support him with information and giving him my opinion about his new researches. That's why I guess I can say my first job was as a Literature researcher more than only as an assistant.

I remember those times very well, and now I just find myself lost when I come back to think about them. But my heart breaks when, for some reason, I get to remember the Afghanistan war.

As I said before, I was from England. But after some months living in the United States, Professor Y.B. found a way to register me as his assistant with an American nationality. He strongly believed that would make me get better work opportunities in the future and will help me solving faster any legal problem I could have with my landlord or to prevent the money transferences he made to my bank account every month from being suspicious for the government.

The only thing he didn't really mention (and which could have easily slept from his mind) was that making me an American citizen also gave me the obligations of an American man to defend his nation.

And that was the real problem, because the government of the United States had ran out of enough supplementary soldiers to protect their basis at Afghanistan (for the war was about to end and there were not many extra soldiers left). So it just decided to take some students from the Literature and Philosophy branches to send them to fight (as big nations always do in conflict times).                                                                                                                                                                                                                      And I have always had such a good luck, that one of the students sent had to be me.

That's why, after spending the best year and a half of my life learning poetry, I left to war for approximately 14 months.                                                                                      They gave me some kind of preparation before sending me to the conflict, but as I've said before, my life was dedicated to Literature and I totally sucked in any kind of physical activity. I've never been very able to control my body as I wish, especially when it comes to make very careful movements. So, as the reader might have already guessed, I just sucked handling a weapon.

So they sent me to Afghanistan, but as I've always loved bohemian life, I became more of a problem than of a military hero because of my lack of enthusiasm at making things I didn't really want to (like waking up extremely early just to make exercise outside, eating poor and cold meals, or not having enough time to read).     

In general, the problem was that I wasn't doing _what_ I wanted _when_ I wanted to. And when someone forces me to make some activity I don't like, I'm probably going to do it wrong and complain about it all the time.

But bigger problems came when, at the moment of attacking one of our opponent's basis, I didn't managed my fusel correctly. We were running, but we had to make very careful and quiet movements because we didn't wanted to be caught. And, as the reader might have already guessed, I have never been very good at controlling my emotions either.   That was how, being my fusel facing the floor near my leg, I suffered a panic attack and my finger's muscles contracted. I accidentally pressed the trigger and I shoot my own leg.

Filled with pain and not being able to run or make bigger efforts, the military complex decided to take me out from there.                                                                                      I passed some months fighting with an infection caused after the shot, and helping planning some military strategies (for I had been sent before as boots on the ground, and I knew the advantages and disadvantages of the terrain we were crossing).

Also, as I hadn't help a lot as a corporal, when my leg was fine, I offered myself to help giving medical attendance to my harmed fellow soldiers and preparing their meals. That was how I achieved (for some weird reason I don't even conceive myself) the _captain_ title and got my permission to leave the conflicted area and be attended at an American hospital.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                But as they discovered I was originally from England, they agreed to send me back to my natal land.

There had passed at least three years after I left England, so when I returned everything just seemed too changed for me.

I remember getting into a very illuminated and active restaurant one morning, to take my breakfast, and finding myself seated beside a big and muscular guy. Kind of a rugby player, he was. He even had his uniform on and his face was covered with mud.                                                                                                                                                        I have always tried to be a very social person, even though I really enjoy spending time on my own making calmed activities in pacific places. But I have to admit I am in trouble when talking to a stranger, because finding a good topic to chat about with a person I don't know if he'll get mad at me for asking about that specific subject, could be very hard.

But anyway, I tried to make some new friends and I started by saying a friendly, but still very frightened and weak "Hello!"

To which he never answered, but only turned his big bull head at me.

"Magnificent morning, don't you think, Sir?"        

No response.

I decided to extend my hand at him, trying to shake his.

"Dr. Fatson, at your service."

Still no response. The human beast simply looked at my hand and then turned his head to his food once more.

But it was just then, when the waitress appeared behind the bar and asked me what I wanted to order, that I noticed I somehow knew her.

"Oh my God! John Fatson, is it you?"

"Sure it's me!" I answered. "And I'm glad to find someone who still knows me, after all those years out of the country."

"But for God! Of course I remember you! You were Professor Y.B.'s assistant back in Atlanta, I took the poetry course with you! Don't you remember me, Mr.?"

It was just then when I remembered young Miss. Michelle Samford, who was studying journalism when her heart belonged to Tennyson. We had fought about that topic many times in the past, for I had never believed such a thing like economic stability existed, or studying a career which could help you working on big Medias and winning lots of money was very important. I always told her she had to follow the impulses of her heart, and I guess in the end she did.

We got into a very active conversation and I told her I was staying at the Stand hotel, but I was in my way to find a flatmate, for I wasn't able to pay for the whole rent of even a small flat on my own.

"You know, Dr. Fatson, how funny this seems. We've just met again after some years and you're the second person who has told me he needs a flatmate today."

I got really interested about this coincidence. "And who was that other man, Michelle?"

"Just a friend of mine," she answered. "A very frequent client. I think you have a lot of free time, and my turn will end soon. So why don't we go meet him?"

That was how she took me to the last place I thought I'll ever see in my whole life (except for space, of course), a lab. What we were doing there, I had no idea. But I knew that if my flatmate was going to be a science man, I will probably find myself constantly bored and caught into ideological fights with him.      

But when we got into the microscopes area, all I could see (apart from the tons of experiments and scientific tools) was a black haired man, wearing a big coat which made him look taller, looking with a cold and brown eye through a microscope. 

"Hey there, Sherlex!," said Miss. Samford. "Sorry to interrupt you. I'd like you to meet Dr. John Fatson, an old friend of mine."    

That cold man looked at me and, after a while, asked me a very particular question.

"Was it a machine-gun or a fusel?"

" _Pardon_?" I answered, not believing what I was listening. 

"Your weapon, at war. Was it a fusel or a machine-gun?"   

"What makes you think, Sr., that I was in War?"      

"I don't think, Dr., I deduce," he answered with an arrogant tone I didn't like much.

"First I looked at your skin. It looks brown, but it doesn't seems to be its natural colour. You might have been exposed to a very heating son.                                                        Then I noticed the tired and frigid gesture in your face, you seem to have passed a lot of time without sleeping. Worried about something.                                                      You've seen things you weren't ready to see. Those factors make me deduce you were in war in an Arabian country.”

"Oh God!" I said, astonished. "This can't be possible, no! There's simply no way you could have deduced all those things about me with just one glimpse. I can't conceive this idea! Someone must have told you something about me before we met."

Then I turned to look at Michelle, incriminating her.

"What else have you told him?"

"Not a word!" said she, to defend herself.

"Now, for the look in your eyes I can see you were probably forced to go to war, so you're not a soldier. That leaves me with only one option, which is that you are an army doctor. But I don't see any kind of cleanness in your clothes, in fact, they are all folded and even a little bit dirty. And their colours do not make a very good combination. So you're not a real doctor, right Mr. Fatson?" Kept on saying this... Sherlex? Was it?

"I AM!" I answered with rage. "I am as _real_ as any other doctor could be! How dare you?!" 

"No, John!" said Michelle, trying to calm me. "What my friend here is trying to say-"

"Is that the marks in your hands show you made a lot of effort just to handle a gun, that makes me think it was not simply a little revolver, but a very complex weapon. And it seems you never really understood how to use it, because that kind of weapons are made to feel conformable in one's hand, and you used to press your hands so much against it that it left scars on them.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      And also because of the fact that you don't move your left leg very naturally. I deduce you have shot yourself," interrupted Mr. _Smartlex_ Holmes.

"You're not a methodical man, you don't like routine. You don't care about how you look. You're not good with physical activities, you can't even handle a gun and you probably sucked in the military complex (that's why they sent you back).                                                                                                                                                                              And of course, you feel totally awkward about the fact that you're standing in a lab. So you're not a _medical_ doctor, am I wrong Dr. Fatson?"

Absolutely astonished about his answers, I just felt like I couldn't stop believing what he said about deducing things. And I also felt very intrigued by the way he liked analyzing and how he could know everything about one person in less than a minute.

Then he started talking again.

"I hope you're not bothered by not having a T.V."    

"Not at all," I answered. "I hate watching T.V. There's never any good programs."

"Good. Now, are you bothered by music?"

"It depends on the _genre_. I hope a great gentlemen like you aren't thinking about playing Electronic or Rap."

"Not at all," answered Mr. Holmes with a disgusted but somehow funny gesture on his face.

"So I guess it wouldn't bother you if I played the piano. It helps me thinking, and I could spend entire days just playing, without talking.                                                               But what about you, Dr.? Tell me all your sins. Flatmates need to know about each other."

"Wow! Piano! Well, I'm not a very.... Musical... Person.                                                                                                                                                                                        WAIT! Flatmates? Who talked about being flatmates?"       

Sherlex smirked.

"This morning I told Miss. Samford that I was searching for a flatmate because I needed to share my rent. Now, just some hours later, she shows up with an old friend that has just returned from war."   

I started smiling and laughed a little bit about all those things that peculiar man was saying.           

"That was... Awesome!"

Now he was the one astonished by my answers, he seemed absolutely disoriented.

"Well Mr..." I said after a while.

"Holmes. Sherlex Holmes"         

"Oh, yeah! Sorry. Mr. Holmes!                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     I guess there couldn't possibly be a thing you couldn't unriddle about me with just one look! But anyway, I can't consider myself a very active person. Calmed and solitary places are my natural ambient. I am so lazy I even compare myself with a hedgehog!"

"Of course," answered Mr. Holmes. "Literature doctor!"    

This time I didn't even need to speak. Just with one ignorant gesture the man knew I was demanding an explanation.

"I noticed it in the way you talk. Fancy and old-styled, but sometimes you mix every-day-life words. You also tend to be very dramatic and you overreact in most situations."

I was so astonished I couldn't even articulate a word... Or find something good to say.

"Well, Dr. Fatson, I believe you will enjoy living at my place. 221 B Baker Street, You'll find me there today at 4 p.m."

Then he returned to look at his experiment and I couldn't stop noticing the boring and horribly large mathematic equations he seemed to solve as easy as if they were 2 + 2.

We decided to leave and I returned to my hotel, walking slowly and peacefully. Thinking about the grate man I had just met.


	2. The Talent of Deduction

 

**S** o at 4 p.m. I took a taxi cab and left my room in the hotel to move to my new house with Sherlex Holmes. And when I finally got to the 221 B of Baker Street, I knocked on the door.                                                           

I knew that reestablishing in London wasn't going to be easy work, and I was also conscious about the fact that that day was being extremely weird.                         

I had spent 2 years out of my natal country and in just one day I had found an old American friend, I had visited a Chemistry lab, and I had met a man I've never seen before in my life but within a minute knew me as if we were best friends. Oh yes! And now I was moving to his flat!

So yes, it was being quite a particular day, but nothing could possibly prepare me to what was coming up next. And all those things seemed nothing to be amazed about when I found myself being able to see the person behind that heavy black door.

I got on time to Baker Street, and I waited for some minutes until a cab stopped in front a big black door with the numbers _221B_ on it. Out of the cab came Sherlex Holmes.    

"Hello again, Mr. Holmes!" I said as he moved closer to the door and started knocking.

"Just Sherlex, please."

The sound of steps getting closer came from behind the door, and then it started getting open.                                    

I will never forget the happiness and astonishment I felt when I found Professor Y.B. standing in front of me.

"Oh! Hello guys! Get in, get in." He said.

"Shall we?" Said Sherlex as he entered to the building.                                          

I just stared there for some seconds.

"Fatson?!" The wizard of words asked. "Dr. John Fatson?! Is it you?!"

"M... Ma... Master!" I stuttered like a little lost child. "MASTER!" I ran into his arms and he kissed my cheeks, like good French people do to salute you.

I couldn't believe I was seeing him again, for after all those tragic episodes I saw (and that, as Mr. _Smartlex_ Holmes well knew, I wasn't ready to see), I started thinking about destiny and death and the real meaning of my life more than the necessary to keep my head in its place. That, and because of my philosophical and dramatic personality, was how I got to the conclusion that I was born for Literature and no more.  

When I was younger, I remember I used to say that books were what I really loved in life, more than any other human being. And of course, growing up as an orphan little boy whose far cousins were taking care of made me never feel such kind of attachment for any other person.           

But when I was around 25 or 26 years old and I first met Professor Y.B., I just felt like I had somehow found my real father.

At first he was just my teacher, but soon he became my best friend, then my father, and after all my whole family. I needed no other family than him. He was always happy to teach me new things. He always cared about how I was feeling. He was always glad to see me and did everything he could to make me feel comfortable.

He loved me like a devoted father loves his son.                                                     

And I loved him like an innocent children loves his father.

But as I've said before, war changed me. And I passed so fast from being the happiest person alive to being just one insignificant soldier whose life matter no more to any country or any man than a flie's, that I started fearing I would never see Professor Y.B. again.                                            

I had finally found a happy place to live, my own place in the Universe, and I had been forced to leave it.                

Maybe that was my destiny. Maybe I wasn't born to be the next James Joyce. Maybe Professor Y.B. was only a teacher, and my real father had died in a car accident years ago, when I was just a baby. Maybe I wouldn't last to see another sunlight. Anyway, nobody would care.

And still, if I had survived war (and what I certainly did, because otherwise I wouldn't be able to write down this story), I could never take out of my head the idea of not talking to Professor Y.B. again. Until that day.

Professor Y.B. invited a crying and trembling Dr. Fatson to get into the flat, and once there, he told me everything about how he had got there.                         

I remembered he wasn't married, and he always said he would like to return to his natal place, there in France. But he never really thought about returning until they sent me to war, for we both knew it was very improbable for me to return alive. So he bought a plane ticket to Paris and got ready to go. And once in the airport, luck wanted him to get distracted and take the wrong plane. That was how he ended up in London.

"And as you well know, my dear John, England is Literature's capital. So I thought my mistakes had been planned by life in order to take me to know a brand new country in which I could keep on doing further books investigations. Here are the most important sources from where to learn, and I thought it would be nice to know the place in which you were born."

Professor Y.B. also said that, when arriving here, he decided to buy a nice flat here in Baker Street, and that after searching for an interesting and amateur tenant, he had finally rented his house to Sherlex Holmes.

"So you're making new friends, Mr. Brudson. I'm glad I don't need to present you," said Sherlex once we finished our conversation.

We moved upstairs to see the flat we were about to share, and when we got there, I found a big, cosy, and a little bit bizarre living room.

"Too clean for me, I daresay," I commented and giggled a little bit. "But look how big this is. There's even a pianoforte in here! Though I wouldn't mind if it was little." My voice started breaking.                                         

"Anyway, I lost all my books when I... Left... To Afghanistan."                                         

I was trying to contain myself from sobbing, and Mr. Brudson (now Professor Y.B.'s new nickname) helped me sitting down on a sofa.

"Fantastic! I don't like having too much furniture."

Both Mr Brudson and I turned to look astonished at Sherlex. He seemed not to care.

"You wouldn't consider empathy as one of your strengths, right, Sherlex?" I dared to say.

"Indeed," he answered.

"Maybe I should make you some tea," offered Mr. Brudson. "Rest here your leg and make yourself at home."

"Damn my leg!" I shouted, not being able to control myself.                                

"Sorry, sorry, Mr. Brudson. And can you give me some biscuits, if you happen to have?"

Mr. Brudson moved to the kitchen. "I´m your landlord, not your Jeeves!"

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Days passed and I really didn't know my flatmate at all. He was always so quiet, so concentrated on what he was doing. Always thinking and solving Math problems I couldn't lay and eye upon without instantly feeling sick.          

He had a very well scheduled life, and he never did anything different from what he had planned to do. He ate the same meal every day and was exact with the time he spent doing one thing or the other.  Those things seemed frustrating for me, but I could pass them all. Except, of course, for one teeny tiny detail... CLOCKS!

He had clocks everywhere! In the kitchen, in the living room. In his bedroom! He even wore a hand watch every day! And I just hated all those stupid clocks! I couldn't stand on listening their tick-tock noise the _whole_ day!               

That was the main reason why I locked myself in my room most of the time. But of course, I had to go down to the dining room to take breakfast with him every morning. And one of those mornings, was when I noticed he was reading something very peculiar.

"What is that that you read with such dedication, my dear Sherlex?"     

"Oh. Nothing. Just a new book I find interesting," he answered.                         

But when I moved my head a little bit low to get to see the cover of the novel (because, of course, he wouldn't rise it for me to give it a good look), I just found it absolutely disgusting.

"For God!" I yelled, not being able to control myself. "What weird kind of CHEAP SHIT are you reading?!"

Freaked out about the fact that I had, not simply said, but rather yelled a bad word at him, Sherlex instantly dropped his book.      

" _The Hunger Games_?!" I kept on yelling, not noticing his reaction. "Come on Sherlex, you are a 30 year-old man already. Why are you reading such a foolish teens' romantic novel?"

All his face covered by a scarlet tone, he started yelling desperately back at me. Absolutely pissed off about my critic.

"I... I just found it in the Best-Sellers section of the nearest bookstore! And, for God, the cover is BLACK! HOW COULD I POSSIBLY KNEW IT WAS A ROMANTIC STUPID NOVEL?"        

"Why didn't you read the back part before buying it?"        

"I did read it, but it said ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!"

Now Sherlex WAS mad. About to explode, he furiously hid his face in his arms (which were crossed over the table). We stood there, in a tense moment of silence, for what felt like hours to me.                

Then, I tried to retake the conversation and make Sherlex feel more comfortable.

"So..." I tried to start again. "You like Sci-Fi?"

"No," he answered almost in a whisper, still pretty angry. "Never read it before."

"Oh!... I see. You know? You should try _1984_ out. It is the best Sci-Fi novel ever written. Maybe if you like it-"

"I don't read classics."

"Oh! Right! Yeah, I guess you don't like that kind of boring old things and-"

“Just shut up,” answered my flatmate.

I did as I was told, and simply closed my mouth. I felt stupid. I was fighting with a chemistry genius because of a book.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Mr. Sherlex Holmes' personality intrigued me so much, that I even decided to try making a whole analysis on him. I wasn't trying to be some kind of weird stalker, don't get me wrong! But it's just that he was that kind of man you don't get to see that much in London.      

I made a whole strategy to stop him from discovering things about me and start knowing more about him (which, I can't say it failed, but it was just too difficult to achieve completely), and I used our morning meetings to ask him particular questions that would take me to discovering how did that brilliant mind of his worked.

As an example, I remember one day I decided to comment he reminded me of a character I had read about long ago. Someone called C. August Dupin.

"Dr. Fatson, I have no idea of what are you talking about. I've never heard of someone with that name."

"No Sherlex, of course you haven't. He's not a real person, he's just a character! He belongs to a book! He only existed in someone's imagination!"

"Whose?" He asked.

"Allan Poe's."

"Never really read something by him, just knew his name vaguely."

Every day, after breakfast, I returned to my room and started organizing my ideas and writing down what I had discovered about my flatmate. In the end, here's all I could find after a month:

Mr. Sherlex Holmes Knowledge in:

Literature.................The average

Philosophy................None

Economy...................None

Politics......................Vague

Maths.......................Expert (probably the best I've seen in my whole life)

Physics.....................Very High (Probably XXIst century's Albert Einstein)

Chemistry................Expert (not even the count of Monte-Cristo could ever get to his toes)

Fine Arts..................Low (he recognizes some of the best works of art, but he has no idea about their names)

Notes: -He has big analyzing and deducing capacities. -He has an especial talent for painting. -He knows how to play the piano.

And in fact, every afternoon he passed hours and hours practicing on the big pianoforte Mr. Brudson kept in the living room. Activity that was absolutely fine with me, for I stopped listening to those clocks from hell.                        

He usually played Coldplay songs (which were his all-times favourites).

For the number of people visiting our house (that was, in general, none) I deduced (for yes, I can also try to play that little deducing game) that my friend had no other acquaintances in London than the people living inside that flat.                                  

So after all, I got to the conclusion that Sherlex was kind of a loner, a young man who liked contemporary music and did not shared most of the common thoughts or pleasures of society.

It was hard for me to find out what kind of things he had in his mind, even though I lived with him. But still, the most difficult matter to discover was his job. I had no idea of where he worked and what he supposedly did, for I saw him locked inside the house the whole day.


	3. At the Chicken Grand House

**O** ne common morning, I was sitting with my flatmate in the dining room and we were discussing Biology matters. Some topics about ecology and the artificial growth of tomatoes (things I didn't really know a lot about, but I did understand some concepts). Then suddenly Sherlex's cellphone rang and he stood up to answer it in the living room.         

In order to find more data about my flatmate, I decided to put my mind in listening to the conversation, but I was just able to hear some vague words.                     

That didn't really mattered because, after hanging up the phone, Mr. Holmes came back and sat on the table. Then, he looked at me with his deep brown eyes.

"Dr. Fatson, I know you've been trying to discover what I do for a living."

I was totally shocked. How could he knew? How couldn't I have thought he'll catch me before?         

"Now, Dr., I have a very important matter to solve and I can't lose more time."

"Sure, sure, Mr. Sherlex. I won't mind finishing my breakfast alone, at all." I answered, trying to erase from his mind the fact that I was searching things about him in a polite way.          

"That's the problem," he answered. "Come with me, I need you to identify certain things."

I stood silent about this proposition. It was kind of... rude! And I had no idea of what his _work_ consisted of.

As a response to my astonishment, Sherlex said "You're a doctor."

" _Fake doctor_ , remember, Sherlex?" I answered, bringing back to memory our first conversation.

"But you’re an ex-military, surely you have witnessed many sudden and violent deaths."

"Yes, yes, enough for a living. Far too much"

He stared at me for some seconds         

" Wanna see some more?"

"OH GOD YEAH" I couldn't stop answering.

That I had passed traumatizing moments there at Afghanistan, was clearly true. But the fact that I really missed war was also true. I missed all those military strategies and secret signals and codes. I guess that was barely the only thing I really enjoyed at war, breaking down codes and discovering the enemies’ strategies.

I daresay I was good at this, and that was probably the only reason why they ascended me to captain. But sadly, this just lasted for some months, when my leg was fighting against an infection that sprung after the shot. This of course, because the infection was so dangerous, that was very risky to send me back to any country. Or even take me out of the military camp.

I spent most of those days at bed, so I had a lot of time to think about and analyze already applied strategies. I hope to have helped in some way, after all.

~*~*~

20 minutes later we were sat side by side in the back of a taxi cab. Then we finally arrived to a very big junk food restaurant called The Chicken Grand House.                                                           

Now, what seemed very peculiar about this specific place was that it was all rounded with patrols and limited with a long yellow band which said things like "POLICE" and "DO NOT CROSS".           

Still, all these difficulties meant nothing for Sherlex, as he got closer with all confidence and was about to raise the band in order to pass behind it when a black gentleman with curly hair suddenly appeared in front of him.

"Oh no! You again?" Asked the man.

"Move Andersou, I need to pass" answered Sherlex in a cold and rude tone.

"You? Pass?"           

"Yes, that's what I've just said. Now move!"

"Oh you psychopath! Who called you?"

Sherlex was about to answer when a fair lady (taller, much more graceful, and with much more taste in clothes than that Andersou) appeared.          

"I called him," the new lady said as she raised the band to let Sherlex pass.      

"We need him, you know that, Andersou. We need a 3rd opinion about this problem."

Once on the other side, Sherlex moved his hand at me, telling me to come with him. But when I was just about to pass the band, Andersou pushed it down in front of my nose.

"No visitants permitted." 

"What's the problem now?" Asked the decent lady (who, I learnt later, was called Gina Sustrade and was, as well as Andersou, a detective from Scotland Yard).

"Who is _this_ man?" Asked Andersou with a very sour gesture.

In that moment, Sustrade stopped and turned to look at Sherlex, asking for an explanation. But I couldn't notice anger on her face. She was simply... astonished.

"This is Dr. John Fatson. He's willed to help me with this investigation."

"A colleague?" Andersou started laughing. "You Mr. Smartarse with a colleague?"

“I needed an assistant! Shut up, you stupid Andersou!”

Now laughing at Sherlex, Andersou raised the band and I was able to pass.

I looked at my flatmate and I saw nothing on his face but death coldness.                    

Except for a tiny flash of weakness, cracking his cold gesture like a lightning, which I was able to notice in his eyes.

In that moment, I swore that no matter how rude and savage my flatmate could sometimes be, I wouldn't call him _Mr. Smartlex Holmes_ ever again.

We got into the restaurant and we found something I couldn't be prepared to see. It was all empty and filled with red and yellow tables... Except for one man with half his body over a table.

_'He was dead, to begin with. There was no doubt whatever about that.'_

Holmes got closer to the body and, while Sustrade was saying something about the event, he started looking at it with curiosity and contorting his body in strange positions to look at the man from different angles. All these helped him getting proves about the imminent death of the victim.          

My flatmate seemed mad as a hatter, for he was smelling the man's mouth, measuring the footsteps marked in the floor, and even taking out a little plastic bag and placing some little pieces of the food he found over the table inside it.

For what I could hear from Sustrade, the man was a frequent client of the restaurant.         

"He was called Rick Drebber," kept on going Sustrade. "And he liked eating here at night, when he came out from his work. Or at least, that's what the manager has told us. They were close friends and they chatted here every night.                 

Except, of course, for last night, when the manager had to leave early because of some personal matters."

In that moment, Holmes raised his head from the mouth of the body and called me

"Dr. Fatson! Come here, there's something I need you to see."

I got closer.

"What do you say, Dr.? I want to listen to your verdict. Get closer to the body, look at it well, and tell me whatever it comes to your mind."

I did as I was told and, after looking closer at the man, I answered Sherlex's question.

"Well... I say he's dead!"

Sustrade started laughing, believing I was making fun of my flatmate.

"What a funny colleague you've got, Sherlex. He has an amazing sense of humour."

Then, Sustrade turned to look at me, wanting to chat.

"I am very glad to meet you, Dr. Fatson. It is great to have another doctor among us. Now I have someone to chat with."

"So you're a doctor!" I said.

"Yes. Inspector Gina Sustrade, leader of the forensic department there at Scotland Yard."

"Great! Hard work, isn't it?" I said, as Sustrade started looking carefully at the body.

"Yes, yes. Hard work for the murder, or murderers, to kill this man without leaving any signs of it. There are no blood strains on the floor or anything that we can take as clue to guide us through this investigation."

Then she stopped to look back at me. "But I'd like to listen to you, doctor. Having a second opinion is always good. What is your verdict?"

I felt a little bit ashamed. What could I possibly say about the body? What did I knew about dead people?

"Well..."

"Well...?" Asked Holmes.

"Well..." Then I noticed something weird. "There is no blood all around him... So he wasn't shot."

"Ok, what else?"

"If he wasn't really harmed before dying, then the cause of his death must be some kind of internal matter. Like having some problem with his heart.                                  

I can see by the expression in his face, that he was kind of stressed before dying. He wasn't ready to leave this world yet, he might not have been aware of him having any kind of mortal disease," I kept on saying.                                                    

"That's a very weird gesture for a dead body, he might have suffered a slow and painful death. Maybe, he could have been poisoned."

"Well deduced, Dr." Answered Sherlex. "I'm surprised."

"But Dr., are there any proves of him being poisoned? Can you notice something abnormal in his body, I don't know, something like a signal in his neck or stomach? You can remove part of the body's clothes if you need to." Offered Sustrade.

"No," I said. "Sorry Miss. Sustrade, but how could I possibly know that? I'm not Mr. Holmes!"

"But, doctor!" kept on insisting Sustrade. "I'm not certain about the time of death, because of the body's temperature. What do you say about that?"

"Well... I say he is clearly... dead!”

Both Sherlex and Sustrade turned to look at me, inquiring. Waiting for me to explain my ideas a little bit more.                              

I started getting stressed, I had no idea of what to say.

“And he was dead before... we got here. So he might have been killed like... let's say... some hours ago?"

Holmes started laughing in a very mocking way.

Sustrade was totally astonished at my answered and instantly sent Sherlex a furious look.

"You! How dare you?! Bad played, Holmes. Bringing a false doctor to a crime scene!"

"WHAT?!" I yelled. "No, not again! I am a REAL doctor!"

"Sustrade, this man over here is actually a doctor. But he's not a _medical_ doctor. What you weren't able to deduce, was that he was a _literature_ doctor!"

"Are you kidding me?" Sustrade turned to look at me. "So you know nothing about medicine!"

"Ehm… not much. Just what basic school and life in general has taught me."

The inspector started laughing hard "And why would a detective like Sherlex would have a Literature doctor as partner? How is crime connected with books?                    

This is totally insane! Sherlex, stop doing jokes of this size. We're in a difficult situation here."

"Oh shut up!" answered my flatmate. "You need me, so just let it go."

"You weren't like this at University," Sherlex and Sustrade started laughing.

I didn't know how to answer. I felt much more ashamed than before. After all, what Sustrade was saying was completely true. Why would a man as Mr. Holmes, a scientist who could solve any kind of riddle as fast as lightning, want to have a partner who was not only useless because of having been injured in war, but also because he knew not a thing about other subject rather than Literature?

I was useless. I knew nothing about science or criminology.                                 

For a moment, I just hoped to have been killed in war.

Sherlex Holmes started asking Sustrade some personal data about the man lying over the table, but I couldn't listen too much of it. I felt awkward and all I wanted was to get right out of there and return to the apartment. Forget everything about Sherlex Holmes and the interest I had about his personal matters.                                

So I simply tried to act like if I was distracted with something outside the window and moved away from the conversation.

After some minutes, Sherlex started walking towards the door and said "Come on, Dr. Is time for us to leave."

We took a new taxi cab and, for some strange reason, Sherlex started talking with me (something he hadn't done when traveling to the restaurant).

"Decent deductions you've done there, Dr. Good for someone who's never worked solving crimes."

"So that's what you do," I said. "After all, you solve crimes. You're a detective."

"I am a consulting detective. The only one existing in the world. I invented that job."

"Yes, I've noticed that. But why _consulting_?"

"Because, as you were able to see today, I am called by Scotland Yard's detectives to give them some advice and lead them to the right clues when they are trapped in a very difficult case."

I said nothing then, I was really thinking about how bad the detective body of Scotland Yard was, in order to call an amateur to help them solving their crimes.        

And above all, if Sherlex was the one really solving the crimes, why wasn't his name ever on the papers?

"Sorry, can I ask you a question?" I started after a while.

"How was the man murdered?"

"No... And how could you possibly know that already?"

"It's science. I just observe and deduce from what I see. I have some ideas, but I still need to prove them. Otherwise, I cannot show them as true."

"It's not science, it's talent!" I answered amazed. "But anyway, that was not my question. I was going to ask-"

"Why was a simple and common man such as Rick Drebber killed while he was just taking his meal? With what purposes?"

"No! I mean, that seems a very good question, but it's not what I-"

"It is not a very difficult question either. That was a very simple death, it seemed almost natural. It was surely done by someone who knew how to fake the cause-"

"It is not what I want to ask you, Mr. _Smartlex_...!"

I stopped. I had forgotten my promise. But it was just that it seemed extremely hard to keep it while living with such an arrogant man as Mr. Sherlex Holmes.

"Sorry," I said. "Now, if you listened, please."

Sherlex seemed willed to keep his mouth closed.

"Why... Why did you choose me as your... Ah! Sorry, this is a tricky question to ask. Let me clear my mind."

"Why would a consulting detective like you, who is an expert in science and all those exact mathematical calculations, and who can figure out how to solve an entire case on his own, want a Literature man to help him?" I said after thinking a little bit.

"Dr. Fatson, now I want you to solve me a doubt."

"What?! But you haven't even listen to mine, I daresay."

"That's not important. Now answer this. Why, when first giving the death body a closer look, and after noticing that there were no blood strains around it, didn't you thought about the possibility of this man dying of asphyxia?"

I struggled a little bit before answering his question. I had no idea about how such an easy solution could have slept from my mind.

"I... I don't know! Come on, Holmes, I am not a medical doctor. I have no idea about illnesses or symptoms of probable natural deaths. My mind is filled with old romantic and tragic books, maybe I'm not able to think about something without including some drama. I simply..."

"You simply...?”

"I simply thought he could have been poisoned with something inside the food."

The detective smiled. "Now you understand why I wanted you to look at the body?"

"I still don't understand."

"Because you have a natural tendency to add some dramatic atmosphere to all things in life. And you can analyze facial gestures and relate them to feelings. You have that empathy I miss to connect with the victims and know their worries and moods when dying. And you can create in your mind complete stories with an infinite number of causes and results that only someone living in a daydream could.                                                       

You never look at obvious details and basic data, I take care of that while you simply wonder. But you can provide me of fresh ideas to complete my theories about how was a crime committed."

"But if all I say is false, and just invented by my unconscious mind," I asked. "How could that be useful to solve a REAL LIFE problem?"

"Oh, Dr.! Sometimes life can be so weird! The most common things are usually invented by our minds, while the most astonishing things are the ones happening in real life. And the clue to solve a perfect crime, is to connect reality with imagination.”

_'Whenever you eliminate the impossible, whatever remaining, however improbable, must be the truth_. _'_

I found myself totally astonished by the answer. It was a smart strategy, and very easy to find out... Somehow.

"So," I answered after a short moment of reflexing. "The problem is in what he ate. The victim, if poisoned, might have been forced to take the toxic substance."

"Are you sure, Dr.? Is it smart to force someone to take poison inside a restaurant filled with people?"

"It was at night, there couldn't have been a lot of people," I argued.

"But still, they could be taken as witnesses. Now think, how could the murderer kill his victim poisoning him in an indirect way, without people noticing he was the responsible of the crime?"

I thought about it, then answered.

"So you think the poison was in the food he ate? The chicken?"

"I still need to prove my theory, but yes. The mystery is within _that_ chicken."

"Can I ask another question?" I started talking again after some minutes of silence.

"Obviously" he answered. Mr. _Smartlex_ Holmes was back.

"Where are we going now?"

"Sustrade has given me the address of the cashier."


	4. Interviewing the Cashier

****

Once we got to the cashier's house and we knocked on the door, a skinny young man let us in and invited us to sit down in the living room.

"Inspector Sustrade called me some minutes ago. She said you were coming to chat with me," said the guy. "I swear to God, Mr. Holmes, that I have nothing to do with this crime and I know not a thing about what caused that man's death.       

Inspector Sustrade has already made me some questions and I've said everything I saw. You can go with her and ask her for the records."

"I prefer to do my own researches and make the questions myself," answered Sherlex, coldly.

"Now Mr., let's talk about your nights at the restaurant."

"Well, you might already know that I cover the night turn at the restaurant. It is quite a dangerous job, because I'm always afraid of someone coming at night with a gun and trying to rob all the money.        

As the casher, the disappearance of the money would be blamed on me. That's why I always take a lot of care at watching the people who come to the restaurant at night, though they are not a lot. And as good and lasting employee, I already know most of the faces I see every single day at my turn. So of course I knew Mr. Drebber."

"Tell me more about him. Did you noticed something different on his attitude last night, something that might not be normal in his common temperament?"

"Not at all. He was as good stuff as always. He was my boss’ friend.”

“Give me a picture of the scene. Describe it as precisely as you can. I want to know all details.”

“Well…” The young cashier (who seemed like being 18 years old for me) scratched the back of his head, trying to remember that night clearly.

“It was approximately 8pm when Mr. Drebber got into the restaurant. He got closer to the empty ordering line, and started chatting with me. As I told you, he was a cool guy. He always leaved tips and-”

“Return to the main idea,” said Sherlex, cutting the teen.

Pissed off by Sherlex´s selfish ways, the young man kept on telling us about the night in which his well-known client was suddenly murdered.

“He asked me if I had seen my boss, but I told him he had left earlier tonight. That was, of course, because he had an important family reunion to attend.               

Anyway, Mr. Drebber was hungry, so he ordered his chicken (the same he had always ordered) and went to sit at his usual place, waiting for his order to be ready.           

Once his order was served, he got closer to me again and took his tray. Then, went back to his place, bite the chicken, and started coughing a lot.”

“And I suppose none of you had the needed preparation in CPR to help him,” said Sherlex.

“No, Mr., they don´t ask us to have any kind of preparation to work there. And I feel really bad about it. I liked that old man, he was nice.                                                          Miss. Sustrade and her cops told me that he had died of asphyxia, I feel terrible to know I could have done something to help him. But you know how those things are, man. They happen so fast that you cannot react at the moment.”

 

 

When I listen to this, I instantly remembered what Sherlex had told me in the cab, and I couldn´t stop myself from smirking. I felt powerful… smart!

Sadly that feeling didn´t last much, as the teenage cashier noticed my reaction.

“What?” He said, angry. “Problem, man?”

“No, no!” I instantly stopped. “Forgive me, Sir.”

He looked at me, totally freaked out. Then, he returned to Sherlex.

“So,” Kept on saying Sherlex. “You served Mr. Drebber´s food?”

“Not served it, but I gave it to him once in the tray.”

“Who cooked the chicken?”

The guy stooped to think for a while.

“Normally, the chicken comes in packages, ready for us to just microwave it and prepare it with different sauces.                   

But I think Rachel was at the kitchen that day.”

“Rachel!”

“Yes, officer. She is a girl that works with us. Rache Bauer.”

“Bauer!” I dared to say. “That´s not a last name from ´round here.”

“Certainly not, it is German.”

“German?” asked the cashier. “Wow! That takes me by surprise!”

“She never said she was German?” Inquired Sherlex, desperately.

“No, no one really knew her. Not so well. She was the new one, only some months working here.”

How we went out from that house, I couldn´t tell. It was so brusque that it stunned me. And the next thing I knew was that Sherlex was fastly taping on his phone as we got into a taxi cab.

“Come on, come on!” Sherlex was yelling at his phone. The suddenly, it started ringing.

Sherlex answered.

“What do you want?!”

I could identify Sustrade´s voice at the other side of the line.

“You fool, I wasn´t understanding you! Your messages were all weird.”

“You know I prefer to text!”

“Enough, Holmes! What is it now? What have you found? Should I send the cops?”

“No, no! I just need you to give me all the information they have at the restaurant about an employee. Her name is Rachel Bauer, and she works in the kitchen.”

Some seconds later, Sustrade spoke again.

“Ok, got it. I´ll call you when I have your information.”

“Do I have to repeat it? Text! Don´t call!”

Sherlex was about to hang up when we listened at a tiny voice coming out from the phone.

“Is the Doc. still with you?”

“Yes.”

Not another word was said. We were only able to listen at Sustrade and some others (probably Andersou. That was for sure) laughing.

Sherlex finally hung up as I covered my face with the palm of my hand. What a shameful day.


End file.
